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Monday, September 8, 2008

Horror, Woe, Lament, I Can't Believe I Did That

This morning, as I pulled into my son's elementary school parking lot, I noticed something a bit queer. None of the children were wearing uniforms. In fact, they were wearing very nice clothes, the boys all in ties and the girls in pretty dresses. My son was wearing his uniform. What gives? thought I.

Well, being the best mom in the whole fucking universe, I missed the memo that today was picture day. I still maintain that this is not my fault. The "Parent Pack" envelopes that are supposed to come home every single month did NOT come home with me this month. And I am vindicated, because another mother was at the office complaining of the exact same thing. She, also, did not receive the information and had dropped uniformed middle schoolers off to be mocked all day for not taking advantage of the uniform holiday. Yes, that happens. The kids who remember not to wear uniforms on uniform holidays make fun of the kids who don't... even though on picture day, chances are your mom has put you in something far more hideous than your uniform.

Anyway, I go down to the office to hurriedly fill out a form. Then, I remember I don't have my checkbook. And it all sort of goes downhill from there.

Normally, when I am not in the third trimester of what is quickly becoming the worst pregnancy in the history of the universe, this sort of thing would roll right off my back like perspiration off a heavily greased male stripper. Not today, friends. No, not today at all.

Instead of simply saying, "Silly me, forgot my checkbook, here's the form and I can drop the check off later?" I have a complete breakdown. We're talking an all out, hyperventilating, "I'm a bad mom!" wailing crying jag. In front of the office ladies.

Now, the way I see it, I have two options here:

Switch my son to a different school. This would probably be the easiest option. He's only in kindergarten. Young kids are resilient. The memory of being abruptly jerked from one school to another will surely fade faster than the office ladies' memory of me sobbing hysterically over picture day. And he can always make new friends. However, I have already paid tuition for the entire year, which leaves me at a decided disadvantage and makes me consider option #2.

Fake my own death, resurface disguised as my son's new stepmother. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Jen, isn't faking your own death illegal?" The answer is "Yes, but only if you're doing it for some kind of illegal fraud." The fraud I'm proposing is (or damned well should be) totally legal. Here's how I do it: I go somewhere tropical, where the police are not as carefully trained to handle the disappearance of a tourist. Then, I go scuba diving, or some other such high risk activity, possibly involving sharks. After my wet suit, riddled with shark teeth holes, washes up on a local beach, I will be assumed dead. Even if it doesn't make the national news (but really, why wouldn't it? Doesn't everyone panic when a white woman is missing?), my husband can still go to my son's school and tell them of my horrible demise. After that, we just have to wait a while and then I can re-enter the picture in a fabulous wig that maybe might look like Annabelle Scioria's haircut from "What Dreams May Come," pretending to be the new wife and step mom, Sofia. You know what? I might even try out an accent. Maybe I'll be the wife he met while in an Ashram in India, recovering from Jen's horrific shark death. I'm at the Ashram seeking peace after my first husband, Gino, a brilliant conductor, drank himself to death after losing a hand in some bizarre Opera accident. And like, maybe I'm Italian... from Venice... and I was once an extra in a Woody Allen movie. You know, I'm liking this more and more all the time. The only draw back would be the weight I'd have to lose so people wouldn't recognize me, and possibly some plastic surgery to make my eyes more exotic shaped an mysterious. And while I'm in there, a boob job. Nothing too much, maybe just a lift and tighten them up, so I don't have to wear a bra under t-shirts. Is that too much to ask?

I've forgotten where I was going with this. Oh, right, crying in front of the office ladies at my son's school. Anyway, we got the picture thing worked out, I cried all the way home even though there was no longer a reason to cry, and now I'm suitably mortified and never want to face the office ladies again.

Oh, they said they understood. They said they'd all been there. But that doesn't make it any better.

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